Page 90 of Fangirl

Will is going to do something. Probably something unhinged. Possibly something brilliant.

But the thing is? I trust him.

Even even at his most chaotic, Will Winters has never steered me wrong when it mattered.

He once told me everyone only gets one unicorn. One impossibly rare, ridiculously perfect-for-you person.

And I let mine walk away.

No more.

Time to burn the script and rewrite the ending.

Whatever fire he’s starting? I’ll be waiting with a goddamn match.

The door bursts open again.

Will pokes his head in, sheepish. “I forgot I’m not wearing pants.”

I stare.

He glances down at his legs. “Kind of ruined my dramatic exit, huh?”

I sigh. “You think?”

He shrugs. “Still nailed the monologue.”

And then he’s gone again, muttering about trousers and matches.

God help us all.

But maybe God’s on my side.

CHAPTER 16

AMY

The next day, I feel a little better, thanks to Maya. And a lot worse, thanks to everything else.

I want him to apologize. I also never want to see him again.

I’ve never felt more unhinged than I do today, but at least I’m off work and can stay cocooned in my flat, licking my wounds and avoiding human interaction like it’s a contagious disease.

I’m still in my pajamas, nursing the tail end of a headache and trying not to spiral when the doorbell shrieks. Not just once—over and over, long and insistent, like whoever’s out there thinks this is a matter of national emergency.

For a moment, I hope it’s my neighbor, Mrs. Perkins, here to yell about the recycling bins again. Honestly? I could use a target.

But when I swing the door open, it’s not her.

It’s a six-foot-something man with broad shoulders filling my doorway, a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses shielding his face.

Before I can speak, he barges in like he owns the place, brushing past me as if I’m not even there. I reel back, slamming the door shut and pressing my back against it like that’s going to protect me.

“What the hell?—?”

He stops in the middle of my tiny kitchenette, pulling off the cap and running a hand through his messy blond hair. The smirk that curves his lips is infuriatingly familiar.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice smooth as sin. “You almost made me wait.”